To Sleep Perchance to Dream
by Nights Mistress
Summary: As the arms of sleep enfold and entrap him, random thoughts skitter through his brain. He knows intellectually that what he sees is not real, and yet it still terrifies him. (Tom Riddle fic. CoS)


He sleeps restlessly, constantly shifting from side to side as if to escape from the clinging tendrils of slumber. His struggles are useless as somnolence has him wrapped in her arms, and she does not allow her lovers to escape from her embrace so easily. His forehead furrows slightly and he moves his head in denial of something that only he can see, and in his dreams alone. Intellectually he knows that dreams are nothing more than random synapses firing in the brain, sparking a cascade of memories that are interpreted in bizarre imagery.

And yet the formless phantasms of his subconscious still plague him, their lack of tangibility tormenting him more then the more solid fears of his once room-mates ever could. During the light of day he would wonder idly what a boggart would make of his fears, but under the cover of darkness such thoughts escape, leaving an unreasoning terror. Terror is not an emotion of interest, for mindless beasts are capable of such an emotion and human civilisation is the thin veneer that separates the humans from the beasts. He likes to think of himself as civilised and as such is frustrated by these bestial emotions. When he wakes up entirely (he refuses to think of the possibility that he might not) he will find a way to remove these emotions, leaving only the civilised man behind.

He moans softly as yet another of his imaginings tortures him with its presence. This one is a memory of what he once was. A small child, a caricature of a 19th century urchin, pressing his grubby nose against the pristine windows of shops and _yearning_ for everything. Life was never easy without money or parents, a bitter truth he knew all about. A child is defined by their parents, and if you have none, your definition of yourself is always blurred by the desire to know about them. Who they were, what they looked like, and not knowing would slice you up inside. He used to stare into the mirror and wonder which of his features were from his father, which from his mother. Whether he had any talents that were from one of them, and would they be proud of him.

He found a photograph of his mother once, and drank in her features like sweet ambrosia. It was a piece in the puzzle that was his family history, and he cherished it for what it was; a link to the past. The picture was taken from him, as he knew it would be, but her image remained engraved in his memory. He had a past, his mother was real and by extension, his father must be real too. 

He used to wonder how they died. He knows now, and used to laugh bitterly at the irony. Both parents killed by himself; his mother in childbirth and his father by his wand. A far better fate then he deserved, abandoning a child to the fickle mercies of fate. Really, he deserved a more….drawn out death. A pity he could only die once, and not have to experience the little deaths that he inflicted on his son by simply not caring enough to rescue him from the hell that was his home.

It was this place that stripped the innocence from him, if one such as he was ever innocent. He was the youngest there, and one would think him to be a likely target for bullying. The other children initially thought as such, and endeavoured to mould him into the epitome of victim. He was not so obliging, and fought back with everything he had. He would win fights and while the sycophants were comforting the loser, he would secrete himself somewhere and lick his wounds, vowing that he would hurt them anyway he could.

Even so, he was surprised when he threw a boy into a wall. The boy broke three ribs. He had learnt something precious; that he could hurt them, like they had hurt him. It was an intoxicating feeling, one that only intensified when he received a letter that confirmed all his suspicions.

He devoured everything to do with this brave new world and found it wanting. For it was tainted with those without magic in their veins, with the taint of the dumb like those in the Place. They had no place in his world, and he resolved to remove them as soon as possible. 

But events long gone are no longer important, a mere mention in the history books, a sentence if that. The feelings of a schoolboy from fifty years ago are not relevant in this modern era. His past, of a victim of fate, is lesser to the person he is now, and what he will shape himself to be. However, even this is irrelevant at the moment.

He remains an adolescent boy, sleeping restlessly under a spell until the exquisite feeling of ink dripping onto his brow awakes him, rousing him from unconsciousness into alertness. These moments are, while coming more frequently, are to be treasured, as during them he is how he wants himself to be, no longer bound by his past. As such, he listens patiently to the puerile complaints of a small girl and savours the taste of life he experiences during these moments. 

He has spent fifty years dreaming, what are a few months? Soon he will be free of both this spell and the damned girl and then he may begin where he left off, with no one being the wiser.


End file.
